


Bright Lights

by evaagna



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Battle of Scarif, Recovery, Sharing Clothes, Short Chapters, Slow Build, discussion of serious injuries, relatively speaking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-18 00:46:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12377493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evaagna/pseuds/evaagna
Summary: Cassian frowns. Maybe he’s imagining things; Force knows they still have him on some horrible concoction of meds, but-- “Is that… is that my shirt?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anteante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anteante/gifts).



> For [ anteanteayer](http://anteanteayer.tumblr.com) on tumblr, as requested from [ these prompts](http://jonsbernthal.co.vu/post/156834911086/angstysuggestive-sentence-starters).

When Cassian wakes up, it's to bright lights. 

At first, that's all his mind registers. It's _so_ bright. Why is it so bright?

Maybe he’s dead and this is the afterlife. That would make sense; the last thing he remembers is waiting for the inevitable on that beach, but-- He had never really given credence to any ideas of an afterlife, so he’s still not sure what, or where, this is. Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

He blinks up into the light a few times, squinting, and things start to take shape. Sterile grey and white. Metal. Duct work? The distinct shape of light fixtures hidden behind bright bulbs. Ah, a ceiling. He’s on his back looking up at a ceiling. Then, is he... _not dead_? 

He takes a deep breath, carefully measured. It’s a technique he’s used countless times before, usually to focus during missions. But this time it’s met with throbbing pain in his chest. Broken ribs, partially healed. A few of them, it feels like.

Okay, definitely not dead, then. 

He tries to concentrate, get his bearings, assess the situation, but his mind is foggy. He feels like he’s wading through deep water just to make the simple observations that should come naturally to someone trained in espionage. But he at least should be able to figure out where he is, right? 

He takes another deep breath, this time willfully ignoring the throb it induces, and listens. He can hear hushed voices, steady beeping, the quiet hum of machines. It’s the medical ward-- obviously. Which-- that makes a great deal of sense, if he thinks about it; it should have been obvious from the start. But...it’s not the one he remembers in the base on Yavin 4. He turns his head to the side, trying to get a better view of the room, and immediately regrets it. Everything hurts. Even that slight motion sends a pang down his body. 

Suddenly Cassian remembers falling. In painful clarity. The data tower rushing past him, nothing but metal to slow him. _Right_. He must have been injured in the fall. 

Ah. Pain killers-- They probably have him on all sorts of meds; that explains the fogginess. 

He groans, half in frustration, half in discomfort. 

“Cassian!” Someone leaps up from a chair pulled up close to one side of the bed. He hadn’t even realized that anyone was there, but the noise must have alerted them. “You’re awake!” The person leans over, casting his face in shadow and thankfully - _thankfully_ \- blocking out some of that unbearable brightness. It takes only a mere instance for their face to come into focus. 

_Bodhi_. He looks both eager and full of concern, and his hair looks… different somehow, though Cassian can’t quite place it. But it’s definitely Bodhi. Relief swoops through Cassian at the sight of him, though he doesn’t have the state of mind right now to mark the reaction as being as excessive as it probably is; the only thing he has thoughts for is the pilot’s broad grin above him. Bodhi’s alive. _He’s_ alive. They--

He thinks of the others - Jyn, Chirrut, Baze, the other fearless Rebels who volunteered for their reckless mission. He wants to ask how they are, if they made it, too, but he can’t find his voice.

“How are you feeling?” Bodhi asks, drawing his attention back. Cassian still can’t get the words out to respond. “Are you in pain? They said you might-- Here, wait, let me-- Don’t try to move, okay?” Bodhi steps away and Cassian has to squint at the light that floods back into his eyes. 

_Don’t move_? 

Well, he’s already sort of figured that one out. _Everything hurt_ when he tried. Part of him knows that he should be concerned; just what exactly is the extent of his injuries? But most of him doesn’t want to think about it right now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bodhi pulling aside a med droid. He says something to it, though Cassian can’t make out the words from here. It responds in the affirmative, turns, and disappears out of his peripheral.

Bodhi comes back over and takes the seat beside him with a notable ease and familiarity. How long - how often - had he sat there? He smiles encouragingly. “Just one second, okay?” He places his hand over Cassian’s. “They’re going to bring you some water and whatever meds you’re due for,”

Cassian attempts a nod and finds that he can just manage the approximation of one. 

“Sorry,” Bodhi winces sympathetically. “It’s just-- from the surgeries, you-- Well, I’ll let the doctors explain it,” he trails off. 

_Surgeries_. Okay, then. This, Cassian thinks, he needs to know. 

But, after a few moments, when the med-droid brings the promised water, he decides that it can wait. It carefully props him, just so, to drink, and he brings his own hand up to take the little paper cup. He can manage that much, with only minimal assistance. 

The water tastes like the best thing he’s ever had. He hadn’t even realized that he was thirsty, but it feels cool and soothing going down. When he finishes, they offer him more. He’s vaguely aware of the droid adding something to his IV drip, probably some kind of medication, but he pays it little mind. He downs a third cup.

Now, Cassian thinks, he might be able to speak. He’s itching to ask questions; there are so many things he needs to know, but he’ll try to start slow. “Bodhi--” he begins, his voice comnig out rough from disuse, and the pilot turns to him, raptly intent. But, suddenly, his eyes are growing heavy. _Those meds--_ he thinks, but knows he shouldn’t be surprised.

Before the question can form on his tongue, he drifts off again. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next time he wakes, Cassian feels more lucid. 

The fuzziness is still there, but the confusion doesn’t last nearly as long. He actually knows where he is almost immediately. He doesn’t know what time it is or how long it’s been, but he finds himself looking around, cautious not to overexert or twist his healing body. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s looking for Bodhi. Which is-- stupid, honestly. He surely doesn’t have time to waste just hanging around medical all day. 

But Cassian still can’t quite chase away the feeling of disappointment when he doesn’t see the pilot anywhere.

After a few minutes, a med-droid comes with water and medication again. It explains his injuries, the procedures he went through, and the healing process to him. He's left feeling overwhelmed and uncomfortably helpless; he has permanent metal pins in his spine now, apparently, and a few more holding together his pelvis. Not to mention the four broken ribs and humerus, badly sprained knee, and mild concussion, though the droid assures him that those are all healing up very nicely.

By all accounts, they don't know how he got back up and kept going. _Because there wasn't any other choice,_ he wants to say, _The mission depended on it._ But it feels hollow and meaningless now. The sentiment would be wasted on the droid, anyway.

They actually let him sit up this time, though with strict warnings not to strain himself. He makes to protest - he’s not used to feeling so weak, so useless, and he hates it - but that only gets him a lecture. The healing process is going to be delicate and time-consuming and any strain will only make his injuries worse, he’s told. 

He’s not granted enough to dwell on it or to slip into a self-pitying mess over how helpless he feels, thankfully, because someone calls his name from across the room, pulling his attention outward. “Cassian! You’re awake!”

It’s Bodhi, and Cassian is so, so glad to see him. They chat companionably for a few minutes, but eventually it peters out under the weight of the things unsaid. Cassian knows there’s a lot that he needs to ask.

“Bodhi, what--” He takes a deep breath. “I need you to tell me what happened,” 

And Bodhi’s eyes light up. “We got the plans, Cassian! It was a near thing, but--” he rushes to explain, the excitement clear in his voice. “The transmission worked and the princess hid it in a droid. This-- this kid brought them to us - they say he’s a Jedi - with the droids and the princess and this smuggler and-- And they did it! I mean, I wasn’t…” He pauses. “I was still stuck in medical, too, when it happened, but-- They destroyed it, Cassian!” 

Cassian lets out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding. It was worth it, then. He nods slowly. _It was worth it_.

“They said they were keeping you out on purpose, to speed up the healing,” Bodhi offers, sounding hesitant. It’s clear he can see Cassian’s distress, and for one wild moment all Cassian can think is that _gosh_ he must be slipping. But then Bodhi shakes his head, expression changing to something between amused and embarrassed. “Force, I think I annoyed some of the staff to within an inch of their tolerance. This last week or so-- I just kept asking, every chance I got, and--”

Cassian chuckles along with him. So then, as he’d guessed, apparently Bodhi _has_ been worrying over him. He’s not sure yet what to do with this information, so he files it away to dwell on later.

When they both go quiet, Cassian steels himself and asks, “And the others?”

Bodhi doesn’t answer right away. But then it comes out in a rush-- “Jyn broke her collarbone and had a dislocated knee or something, but was alright besides that-- ah, physically, anyway,” He frowns, looking down at his hands. “She’s...well, we’re all…” He trails off. _Traumatized_ he doesn’t say, but the idea of it hangs in the air between them.

“Yeah,” Cassian agrees, not meeting his eyes.

“Baze and Chirrut are okay, too,” he eventually continues, “Chirrut had it worse of the two, it sounds like. He only woke up a few days before you did, but they still won’t let him out, either.” He gestures vaguely towards another part of the wing. “And, of course, Baze is around here pretty much all the time. Chirrut keeps telling him, ‘I told you the Force was with me’,” Bodhi says, in his best impression, though it’s honestly more comical than accurate, “And Baze acts all long-suffering, but, well, you can tell he doesn’t mean it-- You’ll see,”

Cassian huffs out a laugh; he can imagine it exactly. Then they trail off, sitting in companionable silence for a long moment before he speaks up again. “And what about you, Bodhi? Are you okay?” he asks, his voice going soft in a way that he doesn’t expect.

“I-- yeah,” Bodhi smiles, just one corner of his lips tugging up. “I’m pretty alright for someone who got blown up,”

Cassian can’t help but laugh, again. “I’m glad to hear it,”

“The scarring is…” He grimaces. “Pretty bad, but it’s just superficial; the bacta really worked wonders, is what I’m told. And, of course--” He stretches out one leg in front of him and wiggles his foot for a moment. Cassian frowns in confusion until Bodhi rolls up one pant leg to reveal sleek metal. It meets soft skin just above the knee. “Could be worse, though,” 

“Bodhi--” Cassian starts, but Bodhi doesn’t let him. 

“The hardest part was probably-- The blast, you know,” He taps his one ear, as if to explain. “The leg was a surprisingly easy adjustment, once they got the prosthetic all set, but the-- really disorienting. But they took care of that, too; put in an implant,” He smiles, as if this is somehow all okay. 

Cassian isn’t stupid enough to not realize what he’s doing; Bodhi is trying to convince him that he’s fine, even though it’s laughably untrue. He wants to protest, to insist that Bodhi stop downplaying his own part in this, but Bodhi goes on. “You had it the worst of us, I think, Cassian,”

Cassian holds his gaze for a long moment but doesn’t respond immediately. 

“Bodhi,” he says eventually, part sigh, part exasperation, and reaches out to take his hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “You’re too good for this,” And he _means_ it. For all of this.

Bodhi only offers a sad smile in return.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe i should try actually re-reading things before i post them

In the next few days, they let Cassian up. He starts physical therapy, trying to regain his strength and retrain his damaged body, just to work around the pain that he's been warned will never fully fade and to function normally again. It's _hard_. Hard in a way that's frustrating and that he isn't used to. It shouldn't _be_ this hard. But he grits his teeth and pushes through, just like he always does.

He's just glad that they're finally letting him out of that stupid bed, at least.

And they tell him that he’s progressing well, too, but it doesn’t seem to help. In fact, it’s almost like the better he does, the more frustrated he gets. Because he should be able to do better; he needs to be better.

He complains of this to Jyn when she visits. _Every_ time she visits. 

She’s sympathetic, at least, but not particularly helpful. “You’ve just got to give it time, Cassian,” she keeps saying. And he knows she’s right, of course, but-- There’s so much to be done. The Death Star is destroyed, but the war isn’t over. There’s so much he could be doing, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that his own body has barred him from contributing to the cause.

But this isn’t a mission. Well-- it is, maybe in a certain sense, if he thinks about it that way-- but he can’t jury-rig his way through it, leaving behind black and white morals to achieve desired results. There’s no grey area in this that he can use to his advantage, so the days wear on, long and frustrating and painfully boring.

The highlights of his days are certainly when people stop by to visit - Jyn, Bodhi, Baze, the few other Rebels he's been friendly with over the years. Draven even shows up once to see how he's doing. He makes a point to assure him that Intelligence is eagerly awaiting his return. Which-- leaves Cassian feeling a bit conflicted, honestly. No one is more anxious for him to be ready to get back to work than he is himself; he's sure of that. But...maybe he’s feeling lower than he thought, or maybe he’s just had one too many brushes with death, but somehow, somewhere the possibility that there could be something _else_ has latched itself onto him.

The idea of it sings through his mind. They did it. The planet killer is destroyed. Of course, he knows that’s not the end of it, but, for the first time in a long time, it feels like it could be a beginning of an end. He’d never let himself think about the possibility before; he’d always assumed he wouldn’t make it long enough to see all of their effort come to anything. But now, somehow, it seems that it’s just over the horizon. 

And it shocks him - _scares_ him, even - how much he wants it. For himself, for the Rebels, for this found-family that he’s just now realizing somehow pulled itself together, despite the odds. 

Maybe he just has too much time to think, right now.

That’s how Bodhi finds him one day when he comes to make his usual visit - staring blankly ahead, lost in his thoughts. Cassian doesn’t even notice him approach, which - really - should be like a neon sign indicating that something’s up.

“Is...is something the matter, Cassian?”

Cassian blinks, looks to him, and then frowns. “Of course; I was just thinking,”

The pilot makes a face, one that’s clearly less than convinced. 

“I’m fine, really,” He tries to make his voice convey the sincerity of the sentiment.

Bodhi’s expression shifts, to something both penetrating and deeply skeptical. “If you say so,” he concedes. They both know it isn’t true. But it will be, soon, if Cassian has any say in the matter. 

Fortunately, he let’s it drop. Cassian is glad, because he really wouldn’t know where to start if he pressed. Instead, they chat, mostly idly, for a while. It’s relaxed and easy and strangely fond. 

After awhile the conversation peters out, and Bodhi looks down at his lap and starts fiddling with the hem of his shirt. It’s an obviously self-conscious gesture, but something about it seems to border on _shy_. Cassian lets himself consider this for a minute while he watches the pilot’s long fingers pick at the fabric. It fits loosely on his lean frame, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

The garment looks oddly familiar. 

Cassian frowns. Maybe he’s imagining things; Force knows they still have him on some horrible concoction of meds, but-- “Is that… is that my shirt?”

Bodhi freezes, his fingers instantly stilling and his eyes going wide and darting up. Then, he suddenly averts his gaze, as if to look anywhere but at Cassian. “I mean…” His cheeks quickly go pink, then red. “I...didn’t have any of my own things?” he tries, though the excuse comes out sounding just as lame as it actually is, even if it is more or less true. 

Cassian raises a brow. “And nobody offered to issue you any?” he asks skeptically. 

“Well-- I--Sorry-- I didn't mean to--” He flounders for a long moment, looking caught and very near panicking, and suddenly Cassian realizes that Bodhi thinks he’s mad about it. 

He quickly backtracks. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” he clarifies, going for soothing, “I don’t care, Bodhi, really, ” Except, he realizes with a start, that’s not entirely true. He does care because-- well, because he kind of likes it. Bodhi wearing his clothes is nice; the idea of it is-- He shoves the thought down; he doesn’t want to think about what that might mean right now. “C’mere,” he says instead, holding out his hand.

Bodhi hesitates for only a fraction of a moment, fingers lingering in the fabric, before smiling softly and taking the proffered hand.


End file.
